


Cold

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: Frodo's encounter with one of the Nine in Osgiliath proves ill for him, and Sam and Faramir find themselves working together in spite of themselves.
Kudos: 4





	1. Faramir

**Author's Note:**

> Movieverse-based , though this then turns and deviates from the movie. Dedicated to Baranduin and Claudia.

"You have to help him!"

My attention, for the moment, was on ensuring no other Nazgul were within sight, and I found myself wryly wondering what I had just done if not helped him: that gardener may have been quick, but he could hardly have protected his master from one of the Nine for more than an instant. Yet as I turned, I saw what he meant: Frodo, despite having held a sword quite firmly to Sam's throat only moments earlier, lay nearly motionless upon the stones, a ghastly pallor blanching his narrow features. His breath came with the swift panting I had too often seen in men close to death from grave wounds or great sickness, and an icy sweat drenched the dark hair, perspiration trickling down the face, running in rivulets to the chain about his neck.

So close.

It had come so close.

And here sat his gardener, barking orders at me as if I were some lackey. Respect had been hard-won. I could feel my men's eyes upon me.

The hour of reckoning.

So be it, then.

Hurrying to the overlook where Frodo had stood, I dropped to my knees beside them, seeking signs of some injury. I had seen no blade drawn, no blow delivered by wraith or beast, yet it was now the left hand which, trembling and icy, grasped the Ring, the right clutching at his left shoulder, as if some grave injury had been dealt.

"Did anything strike him? Even a glancing blow - "

"Not just now, no." Sam shook his head insistently, his chubby brow furrowed as he searched frantically through his pack with one hand, the other presently occupied in holding Frodo's over the Ring. Finally retrieving an oversized handkerchief, he promptly proceeded with patting his master's sweat-drenched face. "It's from before. They. . .they've been chasin' him since we left home, and they stabbed him once." He glared up at me, blame writ large in the accusing brown eyes. "He needs warmth, and if I could boil some water without bein' interrupted - " (the glare darkened, and I remembered with a wince the pot we had discovered in Ithilien, the herbed stew a thin but impressively fragrant concoction) "then I might be able to make him a *proper* hot drink and try gettin' him comfortable."

Frodo stirred, gasping softly, morning-glory eyes still tightly shut as he whimpered. At once Sam began shushing him, dropping the handkerchief to rub the right hand in both of his own, his tone softening.

"It's all right, Mister Frodo; it's all right. Just you lie quiet now."

He turned back to me, and I was surprised to find that some of the angry resolve seemed to have faded.

"They said he was healed. But it's happened before. Only. . .never as bad as this."

I watched as the Ring-bearer gave a faint nod, tears beginning to trickle from beneath the heavy fringes of dark eyelashes. . .and tried to tell myself that my first duty was to my father, and to the memory of my brother. Something told me that there was more yet to his death than either of these had spoken. Perhaps they had more to do with the circumstances than they admitted. Perhaps. . .

Perhaps, I reminded myself, one should beware of "somethings."

Something had certainly drawn Frodo directly into the Nazgul's path.

Something had driven Boromir, or he would not have attacked one so small.

And something had brought these intruders into my path. Not another's.

"We will take him below. There are tunnels beneath the buildings. They are built to withstand grave danger. There is sufficient ventilation for a fire. . .and a spring providing fresh water."

"'Bout time," muttered Sam darkly, eyeing me with skepticism. I bit my lip, bending to take Frodo in my arms. He weighed little more than a small child, and I wondered at the readiness with which he allowed me to take him: indeed, he shuddered, as if chilled, and nestled at my chest a little. Sam made a slight face.

"Don't you go thinkin' that means he's forgiven you. Like as not, he's half out of his head still, and thinks you're Strider. . .Aragorn that he mentioned, the other man."

"I do not doubt you in that." Turning, I led the way down the nearest stair, moving swiftly, pausing only when I reached the bottom to ensure that the short, stout legs trotted close upon my heels.

Indeed I did not doubt it in the least.

I had given the Ringbearer precious little reason to trust me.


	2. Frodo

Iced-water.

I felt as if I had been flung into a pool of it and left, pulled out only seconds before freezing.

And the comfort. . .the exquisite, ever-increasing warmth. . .it had gone when Sam shoved me to the stones, knocking the breath from my body for half a moment.

Someone, though. . .someone. . .warm hands. . . .

But I needed to get back to the balcony.

If I put It on, I would feel better. That was it. Just for a few minutes. . .just long enough to get warm, to feel better. . .

No.

No, it was a trap.

But so were the warm hands. They had to be; they were too big and too smooth to be Sam's.

Captain Faramir. Or one of his men, perhaps.

At once I struggled, elbowing the big chest sharply in the centre, afraid to kick in case I succeeded in this first effort and suddenly found myself dropped by the arms which carried me: I would need both feet to land, after all. There was a catch in breathing, and a short groan, but no freedom. . .in fact, the big arms clutched me more tightly, effectively immobilising my arms. . .and, unfortunately, my legs.

"My, but you can be spirited, can't you?"

The tone sounded faintly amused, which thoroughly irritated me. I felt soaked through and chilled to the marrow, and my entire body ached from too much contact with the stones, and too long of forced marching in blindfolds, for our guides - if guides they could be called - merely kept us in the proper direction. . .they did not warn us of stones or uneven ground that, while not necessarily dangerous, could be painful at times, particularly when a hobbit foot, tough sole and all, landed firmly upon it. I was in no mood for teasing, and at once I opened my eyes.

To my astonishment, I was. . .in some sort of cave, but not the rough one we had been taken to at first: this seemed to be still in Osgiliath, for I could hear the clamour above, and the stone walls looked to be of the same make as above. Smeagol was in a far corner, closely guarded by three men. Sam was nowhere in sight, but I could hear his voice, and he did not seem to be in imminent danger, though from his conversation I gathered it could well have gone otherwise.

"Now this'll take just a moment. . .what I wouldn't give for some o'that stuff Strider set such store by, though I don't think it works right for nobody but him and Lord Elrond. . . ."

And I. . .

Where *was* I?

Not far from Sam's muttering, but. . .Faramir had me, carrying me with firm grasp. Yet, surprisingly, he suddenly knelt, easing me down. . .and I felt something soft beneath my back and limbs.

A bed.

It was a bed. . .low, but not uncomfortable, and beyond all praise to me at the moment. To my amazement, Faramir put a pillow beneath my head and pulled blankets over me, calling to his men for heated stones, which he set around me as they were brought, each smooth rock wrapped in a blanket or knitted cloth.

"You are ill. I cannot allow you to leave my keeping in such condition. If you will allow me, I can try to help, though I am no healer, and no doubt less comforting than your original companions. . .but I would try, at least."

He tucked yet another warming-stone in beside me, tucking the covers up to my chin. . .not tightly enough to immobilise my limbs or impair breathing, much as Aragorn had.

"It will, however, help considerably if you do not try to escape, or to strike me."

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice.

"I will see to it, if you lie quietly and allow me to give what care I can, and allow your servant to tend you as he will, that the two of you. . .and your "guide". . .are returned to the wild to continue your journey. If you insist upon trying to escape, exposing yourself and this hideaway to danger, I shall have no choice apart from binding your hands and feet."

I contemplated this for a moment. I did not like it at all. . .but I had little strength to waste in either arguing or attempting to stand, much less finding a way out.

And the bed really *was* growing warm enough that I could sense it, despite the continued chill.

He waited.

"I will do my best. I believe you."

A hint of. . .a smile?. . .brought up the corners of his lips, though the expression was fleeting, and he looked sadly away for a moment, watching Sam prepare something in one of our mugs.

"We have little provision for properly feeding and nursing the seriously ill, but we will help you as we can."

I nodded. . .and could say no more, feeling the chill fold in around me again if to suffocate me. Dark wings seemed to close over me as I fell back into ice and the sharp, jagged edges of pain.


	3. Faramir

"Frodo?"

Even as I spoke, I knew it was of little avail: his eyes rolled upward as they had earlier, and again a spectral pallor overwhelmed his already- deathlike features. He looked as if he might faint, and swiftly I moved the pillow from beneath his head.

"Damrod, a basin, at once, and cool water, please - and cloths - "

Visibly alarmed, Sam abandoned the warm drink, hastening to his master's side. "Mister Frodo! Sir. . . ."

"He cannot hear you. . .not clearly, at least. It is the way with the poison of the Ulairi."

He cast me a dark scowl. "Don't think I don't know that by now! I've been with him since it happened, and seen a lot more'n *you'd* ever know 'bout what he's been through. They said nobody else'd ever been hurt that bad and lived."

"I have seen grave injuries in my time, Samwise."

"Oh? I s'pose you've seen poisoned knives, too, then, in the hands of that Witch-King, or whatever it is they call 'im." He fairly spit the words at me, anxiously rubbing his master's left hand.

Damrod returned, setting the items I had requested close at hand, and I tucked the tiny bundle in more securely, hoping to avoid chilling him, for clearly even with the warming-stones he felt cold. Wringing out a cloth in the fresh water, I touched it to his forehead, stroking lightly, then pressed it gently to the back of his neck. He shuddered slightly, trembling afresh. . .no, I realised, the coolness would not help, as it so often did with those close to fainting.

And yet I was curious. . .

"Damrod. . .there should still be warm water left from the preparation of that drink. Bring it hence in a basin, and let us see whether that will help."

He promptly obeyed. Sam studied me with a look of mildly decreased trepidation, eyeing me closely as I set cloths in the warm water to soak.

"Sam, open your master's shirt. There are sufficient warming-stones that he will not become chilled from sponging with warm water, if carefully done. When you are ready, I will hand you a cloth, and we shall keep him covered with plenty of blankets."

Astonished eyes met mine. For a good minute or two, I sensed that I was somehow being measured, held up to some rule and found. . .less wanting than before, perhaps. Moving slowly in an effort to avoid alarming either halfling, I wrung out a fresh cloth and began bathing

Frodo's diminutive features, brushing the cloth lightly over his face.

"Now, then. . .perhaps you can enlighten me. I would be quite interested in hearing more. . .I will do what I can for your master."

He shot me a look that would have frozen beer. "You could let us go."

"I cannot until he is at least a little better. At present, he could do nothing were the Nazgul to return, and I would not leave him defenceless."

Sam opened his mouth, clearly to protest, but seemed to reconsider (however grudgingly), and began undoing the tiny buttons fastening Frodo's shirt, pulling away cloak and vest to open the garment, exposing a chest almost too small to be believed. . .a body the size of a child's, one of our lads at age six or seven years, eight if rather small for his age.

"That's the mark there."

I followed Sam's fingers as they directed my eyes toward a small white mark along the left shoulder. . .and, further down, the scar of an expertly placed incision.

"That's where he was stabbed. That Nazgul thing. . .the chief one of 'em, Lord Elrond said it was, the one who had a kingdom in the North back in the old days, before any of our times. . .well, meanin' ours, not his, of course. . . ." He sighed, easing Frodo's arm carefully out of the shirt. "He was awful sick. . .it was more than a fortnight till we got to Rivendell, and by then it was just about too late to save him, but they managed somehow. He's stronger than he might look to you." His master now out of the damp clothing from the waist up, Sam held out his hand, and I offered a fresh cloth, warm and well wrung-out to avoid dripping. Gingerly, with expert and practised care, he began bathing Frodo's shoulder, shushing gently as the slimmer hobbit began to whimper with pain. "He still has a lot of pain from it sometimes, mostly when they're around. . .it's what makes him so sick like this. . . ."

"It is not uncommon for their presence to have such effects. . .though I must admit that I have not met anyone who has been wounded by their blades and survived more than a few hours or days."

"Well, now you have." Stroking the cloth along his master's arm, then taking a fresh cloth from my hands to continue with the chest, he nodded firmly. "Was back in October, near on five months ago. Two months wasn't near enough for him to recover, in my opinion, but I'm no kind of a healer, and he did seem a sight better."

Laying a warm cloth over the fair forehead, I continued to bathe the small face, nodding.

It was then that I noticed.

The Ring still hung on its chain about his neck, resting against his chest.

I thought of Boromir, and wondered at what he must have thought of this tiny bearer.

Not wondered. . .thought, rather, for I knew well enough what he would have thought.

What a good son would think.

Sam rose, fetching the mug and returning to lift his master's head gingerly, making soft hushing sounds as he touched the rim to pallid lips, coaxing in a soothing, reassuring tone.

"Come now, Mister Frodo. . .just a little taste of this. . .it's a bit of that elderberry syrup, mixed up all nice and hot. . .see if that don't help those nasty chills, sir. . .just a sip or two. . .there's a good fellow. . . ."

What I had agreed earlier. . .that was what a good son would do, of course.

Everything happens for a reason.

Not by chance did these two wander into my hands. . .any other of our men would have killed them on sight, as was the order. The Ring would have gone unnoticed, untouched, unless recovered by the Enemy.

The greatest weapon we could have possibly imagined. . .within my grasp. All I needed was to stretch forth my hand, and take it. . . .

I watched the weak flutter of motion at Frodo's throat as he swallowed.

My father would be so proud. . .for once. And it would be some comfort in the loss of his favoured son.

What is best for one, however, is not always what is best for all.

Those words Mithrandir had once told me.

Surely it would have been best for this little one to remain in Imladris. And yet he is here. . .far from home or family, from any friends save his gardener, and far indeed from any comfort.

And yet he is here.

One may be led astray by well-intentioned thoughts, Mithrandir often warned me. And even one of the great Stewards may be deceived. You are accountable for yourself, and those whom you lead. Remember that, and recall that pride has been the downfall of more men than any war or treachery.

Pride.

I tucked the blankets over Frodo's chest, adding more warming-stones wrapped in cloth at his sides, covering him to the chin so that not even the chain upon which the Ring hung lay exposed.

"Sam. . ."

He looked up, still holding the cup to Frodo's lips with one hand, his master's head cradled on the other arm.

"We will wait until your master feels better. Until the chill passes. In the meantime, my men will add some small provision to your packs. . .not much, but such as we can offer. Two staves I will give you, if we can find something fitting. And I will have food prepared now for the two of you. . .some broth for Frodo, since in his present condition, he seems to require warmth above aught else, and a bit of broth with wine might be easier for him to take than aught else."

I drew a deep breath, watching as his eyes widened a little.

"When Frodo recovers sufficiently, we will take you out of the city through secret paths, and point you in whatever direction you seek to go. . .the Black Land, if you feel compelled to continue your errand. You will be free to continue on your way."


	4. Frodo

Red wine.

A hint of red wine, and a bit of egg. . .of herbs. . .some sort of. . .of something. . .warm, at least. . . .

"There now, Mister Frodo. . .there's a good fellow. Drink up. Just like that. . .there now. Good."

Forcing my eyes open, I looked up at Sam, who held the mug to my lips, raising my head on his arm. But someone was stroking a warm compress along my chest, and another lay on my forehead. . . .

I looked up into grey eyes gentle with compassion, no longer hardened.

"It is all right, Frodo. Try to rest and drink, as Sam says. You will be aided on your way once you are well enough to rise, but for the present, my men are preparing some food for your packs, and you must rest until you are warmer and stronger. Osgiliath will not fall without a hard fight, and not for a day yet. . .by then you may be safely on your way."

Let us go.

He was going to let us go.

I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my chest and stomach.

"Thank you. . . ."

A soft, somewhat sorrowful, smile. "No need to thank me, Frodo Baggins. I am merely doing what I believe to be right. . .as an old friend might have once advised me." He nodded toward the mug.

"Drink. I fear Samwise shall have my head if I keep you conversing when you should be taking some nourishment."

"But - "

"Now, never you mind, Mister Frodo." Scolding softly, Sam pressed the mug to my lips again. "I've had somethin' already, while this was gettin' good and hot for you, and there's nothing to worry about, 'cause Captain Faramir here says he'll let us go. . .and in the meantime he's trying to help you. I reckon he's wrapped you up with your weight over in warming-stones. So just sip a little more. . .just a bit."

I obeyed. It *did* go down easily, warm and heartening, and I found myself beginning to feel a little better. Faramir continued to bathe my chest and face with warm water, avoiding the area about my neck where the Ring's chain still lay.

"I wish that we had more resources here to aid you, but eggs and wine and bread we have, and those, with herbs, will do more to strengthen and warm you than anything else. There are dried fruits and meat for your packs, along with some bread; these will keep for many days. When you have finished this, I would like for you to take a little more to drink. . .hot apple cider, mulled with just a little more wine. That may further ease the chill. . .you must remain in bed while you drink it, but then, in a few hours' time, we will try you with standing, if you feel strong enough."

"I will." Nodding, I continued to take mouthfuls of the warm mixture for Sam, who looked decidedly less irritated with Faramir at present. "I can manage it."

Faramir smiled a little then, and there seemed a warm curiousity in his grey eyes. "Perhaps one day, if happier times ever come, we shall meet again. . .and then, I hope, you will tell me of your lands, and your people, and perhaps even of your journey. . . ." Sadness flickered into his eyes. "I regret that it concerns such evil, for in happier days, you might have seen the beauty of Gondor. . .my brother would have been proud to show it to you, as would I."

He hesitated for a moment.

"There was. . .much debate. . .concerning which of us should go to Imladris to seek council concerning the dreams that came to us. It was my father's choice that his elder son do so. . .and he has, I fear, regretted that most bitterly, for the loss of Boromir came hard to him. . .harder than my fall would have been, to be sure. And hard for us all: Boromir was a brave man, and noble. . .if perhaps too proud. He was my brother, and dearer to me than anyone else in the world."

Another hesitation, though he continued to freshen the cloth in warm water, sponging my arms now, giving particular attention to my left arm and side, as if he sensed the additional chill.

"But we were never blind in full to one another's weaker points, and I do not wish you to be frightened. The laws of my country require me to be harsher than is my wont. However, I know enough now of the matter, and we can give our concern toward helping you recover, so that you may continue your errand."

Sam coaxed the last sip of warm liquid down my throat, smiling approvingly as I swallowed. Already I felt drowsy: it had been so long since I slept well, or for very long, and despite my best efforts, I felt my eyes closing. . .not the heaviness of drugged sleep, but the weary rest of exhaustion. Faramir's large hands tucked the covers back in around me. My face was wiped with a warm, damp cloth, and another compress was laid over my brow.

"Let him sleep. The rest will do him good. We will give him the cider when he wakes. . .if he requires more rest, he should sleep, so long as the danger is not too great. My men will keep us informed."

I heard Sam's voice, but could no longer make out the words. . .

. . .and the last thing I felt aware of, apart from being kept warm by fresh warming-stones and blankets swaddled about me, was a voice.

Not Sam's.

But singing a very soft lullaby, while someone's hand stroked my hair.


	5. Faramir

The little one sleeps, nestled in every warming-stone and blanket I can find in which to wrap him. His servant sits at his side like a faithful guard-dog, one of the mastiffs in the city trained to watch over his master, baring dangerous teeth at anyone who might so much as potentially annoy the owner. I, however, seem to have been accorded conditional approval for providing appropriate warmth and nourishment, though some clear mistrust remains.

And who can blame him in that? For I did, after all, take him, and his master, against their will, allowing my men to treat them as we might have any of the Southron spies, pushing them at a pace which, I now realise, is harsh but not inhumane for men, but must have been torturous for such small bodies.

I did indeed have to take them, to question them.

But I did not have to speak so harshly to them once questions began to be answered.

My father would have been proud, and that thought sickens me. I do wish to please him, particularly now. . .but. . .at what price?

That was one of Boromir's better qualities: he was naturally our father's favoured child, and more like him, yet never would he alter a decision or change his path simply to please Denethor. It was fortunate that they agreed upon most things, for the stubbornness which now haunts my steps is a quality which runs in our blood.

My father might be proud, but I am not. I am ashamed. . .ashamed of treating such small creatures so roughly when there was no need; ashamed of threatening this tiny person, scarcely as tall as my sword's length; ashamed of dragging him by the hand and thrusting him into an antechamber of sorts, of shoving him against the wall and ordering him to stay as one might order a dog, instead of realising that he was very ill.

The matter with the Nazgul was my doing.

It was my fault.

Had I swiftly taken him up, called to the others, we could have run for the stair, and taken refuge below, here, from the start. He needed to be carried to bed and calmed, given stimulants to steady his heart and quiet him, not allowed to wander. . .I dare not think what bruises may result from my actions, and I have had my men pack plenty of cloth for soft padding, bandages and a bit of the arnica cream prepared by the Healers for tending to such injuries.

I have ever considered myself the less hasty one, regretting it in the same thought, for Boromir always seemed bold and courageous, swift and strong, where I seemed to lag behind in comparison, grateful for his patience with me.

If I have treated these little ones thus. . .

I cannot bear to think of what must have happened between Boromir and the bearer of Isildur's Bane.

My brother was not ungentle. . .but he was proud, and very strong.

Holding back a sigh, I rise and turn to the table near the fire, beginning to slice a bit of bread for toasting. Wine-sops are less suitable, perhaps, for one so ill, but we have no milk, and I would rather see him take something more solid than broth before turning him on his way, into that darkness where he insists he must go. And this will be more bracing than bread simply sliced and offered as it is.

Perhaps Gondor will, without this weapon, fall to the Enemy.

Perhaps we almost did.

The Enemy may be everywhere, Mithrandir once told me, and not least within ourselves, if we look not to the guarding of our hearts.

Some few paces away, Frodo stirs in his sleep, whimpering softly, one tiny hand emerging from the covers to seek the chain about his neck. . .and his companion swiftly shushes him tenderly, one hand reaching to cup the Ringbearer's, the other to stroke his brow with a fresh compress.

Pouring the heated wine into a shallow bowl, I add a bit of mulling-spice, then break the toasted bread into small pieces, dropping each bit into the warm mixture as I work.

My last gift to you, little one.

Perhaps Mithrandir was right. Even the smallest things may fell the mighty, and the world be undone by things no larger than a fingertip.

And that which seems but a small and passing thing may make all the difference in the world.

END


End file.
